“Win?” Drake dropped down beside her, drew her toward him. “Bravest girl I've known--of course you'll win. And remember this--nine-tenths of what you're thinking now is purely over-wrought nerves and weariness. You'll win--and we'll win, never doubt it.” “I don't,” she said. “I know it--oh, it will be hard--but I will--I will--” CHAPTER XV. THE HOUSE OF NORHALA Her eyes closed, her body relaxed; the potion had done its work quickly. We laid her beside Ventnor on the pile of silken stuffs, covered them both with a fold, then looked at each other long and silently--and I wondered whether my face was as grim and drawn as his. “It appears,” he said at last, curtly, “that it's up to you and me for powwow quick. I hope you're not sleepy.” “I am not,” I answered as curtly; the edge of nerves in his manner of questioning doing nothing to soothe my own, “and even if I were I would hardly expect to put all the burden of the present problem upon you by going to sleep.” “For God's sake don't be a prima donna,” he flared up. “I meant no offense.” “I'm sorry, Dick,” I said. “We're both a little jumpy, I guess.” He nodded; gripped my hand. “It wouldn't be so bad,” he muttered, “if all four of us were all right. But Ventnor's down and out, and God alone knows for how long. And Ruth--has all the trouble we have and some special ones of her own. I've an idea”--he hesitated--“an idea that there was no exaggeration in that story she told--an idea that if anything she underplayed it.” “I, too,” I replied somberly. “And to me it is the most hideous phase of this whole situation--and for reasons not all connected with Ruth,” I added. “Hideous!” he repeated. “Unthinkable--yet all this is unthinkable. And still--it is! And Ventnor--coming back--that way. Like a lost soul finding voice. “Was it raving, Goodwin? Or could he have been--how was it he put it--in touch with these Things and their purpose? Was that message--truth?” “Ask yourself that question,” I said. “Man--you know it was truth. Had not inklings of it come to you even before he spoke? They had to me. His message was but an interpretation, a synthesis of facts I, for one, lacked the courage to admit.” “I, too,” he nodded. “But he went further than that. What did he mean by the Keeper of the Cones--and that the Things--were vulnerable under the same law that orders us? And why did he command us to go back to the city? How could he know--how could he?” “There's nothing inexplicable in that, at any rate,” I answered. “Abnormal sensitivity of perception due to the cutting off of all sensual impressions. There's nothing uncommon in that. You have its most familiar form in the sensitivity of the blind. You've watched the same thing at work in certain forms of hypnotic experimentation, haven't you?